


Rigor Samsa

by chanderson



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1968, Angst, Fluff, Hey Jude, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, McLennon, Paul is so sad fml, References to Depression, The White Album sessions, but John is sweet to him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 08:37:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14733633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: Rigor Samsa: 1.n.A kind of psychological exoskeleton that can protect you from pain and contain your anxieties, but always ends up cracking under pressure or hollowed out by time.July 30, 1968. The second recording session for Hey Jude. On the outside, Paul seems alright. On the inside, Paul's falling apart. This time John's there to catch him.





	Rigor Samsa

**Author's Note:**

> Hi this is my first Beatles fic. I tried to research and get the details as accurate as possible. Like the summary says, this is set during the second recording session of Hey Jude. I don't know if tensions between John and Paul were high on this day; that is my own editorial addition. It's slanted fairly anti-Yoko because it's from Paul's POV. 
> 
> I hope this isn't complete trash?? 
> 
> This is all made up, I don't intend to libel, etc., etc. 
> 
> Enjoy y'all!

Paul usually puts on a brave face. He’s good at that, always has been. Outwardly, to the world, Paul seems alright. His smiles are genuine enough; he still has that special McCartney charm. Even ensconced in Studio 2, always under the watchful, scrutinizing eye of Yoko sitting in the corner, Paul seems alright. He lets John’s insults roll right off him, continues to dutifully pluck away at his bass. Even when John trashes his songs —  _“What the fuck is this granny shite?" —_ he just keeps his head down and keeps on working. He flashes George and Ringo reassuring smiles when tensions rise; forever the salve to John’s blazing outbursts, Paul keeps the ship afloat. 

On the outside, Paul seems alright. 

On the inside, Paul isn’t alright. 

Everything is unraveling so rapidly that sometimes he feels whiplashed — one day everything’s okay and the next he feels like he’s fighting an uphill battle. It’s exhausting, trying to keep everything together through sheer force of will. Usually he can do it, he can keep up the mask and ignore John and make music and mitigate the fights, but other days all he wants to do is pull the blankets over his head and never move again. He gets home from the studio and heads straight to the liquor cabinet, drowning himself in booze. Franny is there, watching him with big, sad eyes full of pity. But he doesn’t want her fucking pity. He wants his life back. 

He wants his _John_ back. 

At night, his dreams are filled with flashes of messy kisses in Hamburg with clumsy hands groping and exploring. He dreams of soft caresses and sweet words in Paris. He dreams of stolen kisses backstage. He dreams of colors and shapes swirling around him as John moans beneath him. He dreams of Liverpool and a life full of endless possibilities. 

He wakes up with his face sticky with tears, an erection straining against his boxers. 

He’s always thankful that Franny never mentions the way he cries into her shoulder as he rubs up against her, waking her up with tales of dreaming about her. As he shudders and groans his way to orgasm, his tears mingle with their combined sweat.

On the outside, Paul seems alright.

On the inside, Paul’s falling apart. 

*******

John and Yoko are already at the studio when Paul walks in. They’re sitting against the wall together, practically in each others laps, as they giggle about something. Paul swallows down his anger, carefully schools his expression into something neutral and blasé. He methodically gets his Hofner out and tunes it up, a familiar routine that grounds him just a little. 

Ringo arrives next, a sunny smiles on his face that puts Paul at ease. He can always count on Ringo to lighten the mood. 

“Morning Ritchie,” Paul says as he lights up a cigarette and carefully lays his Hofner on the ground beside him. Ringo waves and drags a chair over to sit next to Paul. He absently pats a soft beat on his thigh. 

“Beautiful outside, isn’t it?” Ringo asks as he lights up a cigarette for himself. Paul smiles politely and nods.

“Yeah. Not too hot.” Paul takes a long drag as their conversation peters out. He itches to make some sort of noise to break the silence in the room. 

Then George comes in, already talking as he walks through the door. 

“Christ, some fuckin’ maniac nearly hit me with his motorbike outside,” he gripes. “Fuckin’ idiots don’t look where they’re going, I swear to God.” George huffs and shakes his head. “God damn.” 

Paul and Ringo share an amused look and chuckle quietly. George turns and glares at them. 

“S’not funny.” He sits down and angrily lights a cigarette.

“It’s a little funny, George,” Ringo points out, and Paul can’t help but snort at the stormy expression on George’s face. 

Instead of responding, George jerks his head over, motioning to John and Yoko. 

“I didn’t know she was coming today.” He blows a steady stream of smoke out. Paul swallows down another tiny surge of anger, reminds himself not to get worked up.

“John likes it when she’s here.” He tries to keep his voice as objective and nonjudgemental as possible. George frowns and ashes his cigarette. 

“Alright then” he mutters. Ringo chuckles nervously and moves to sit behind his drum kit. 

“It’ll be fine. She’s normally pretty quiet.” Paul shoots George a strained but reassuring smile. He only harrumphs in response. 

The room falls silent again — save for John and Yoko’s whispered conversation — and this time Paul can’t stand it. He moves to the piano bench and warms himself up, plays a bit of Hey Jude to get ready for the next batch of mixes they’re working on. He doesn’t miss the annoyed, grumbling sound George makes behind him. 

“Hello boys. Sorry I’m a bit late.” 

Paul turns around on the piano bench as George Martin walks in, a thick stack of papers stuffed under his arm. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t available for the session yesterday. I heard it was a late one,” he continues as he hurries up the stairs to the control room. The engineer, Ken Scott, is waiting patiently, a magazine open on his lap.

“It’s alright, George,” Paul calls out. “We missed you yesterday.” 

“I hope you didn’t cause Ken too much trouble,” he says, his voice projecting into the room over the speaker. Paul smiles impishly and shrugs. 

“You never know with us.” 

“Right. Are we ready to start? Where’s John?” 

Paul’s smile immediately falls and his eyes flicker over to where John and Yoko are sitting together, seemingly ignoring their surroundings. 

“He’s over in the corner ignoring us.” Paul forces a playful amusement into his tone and makes his way over to stand in front of them. John is the first to acknowledge him, looking up and smiling. 

“Hello there, Macca,” he says. “Time to start working again?” Paul nods hesitantly, unable to gauge John’s mood. 

“Yep. We’re gonna record some more takes of Hey Jude.” 

“That’s a good one. We like that one.” John pats Yoko’s knee as he clambers to his feet.

“George is here so maybe it’ll go a little smoother today,” Paul says, still testing John’s mood. John just gets his guitar out and tunes it up before settling into his spot behind the acoustic room divider. All Paul can see is his face now, granny glasses perched low on his nose and hair hanging in his face. He puts his headphones around his neck.

“Usually does go better when he’s here.” John smirks at Paul. “He doesn’t let you take control of the whole damn session and turn it into a disaster.” 

He says it so casually that it almost doesn’t sound like an insult, but Paul knows it is. Ringo awkwardly clears his throat and taps a quick beat on his drum. Up in the booth, George Martin asks everyone if they’re ready. 

George, still pissed from yesterday, is also in the booth. After Paul rejected his guitar part, he decided not to take part in the recording. Paul feels bad for offending George, but he can only please so many people at once. 

Paul watches as Yoko pulls a chair up to sit next to John, a copy of the lyrics in her hands. Paul swallows the sharp, acerbic words on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t understand why she has to be here. Why she has to invade _his_ space. Music was supposed to be something sacred, something John and Paul did together. 

Paul puts his headphones on and cracks his fingers, purposefully staring at the lyrics in front of him to avoid looking at John. He almost wishes he could spin the piano around so he didn’t have to see John at all. Or Yoko, for that matter. 

“We’re ready,” Paul says brusquely. John tuts his tongue.

“Something wrong, Paul?” His voice drips with sarcasm. 

Paul squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. 

“No. Let’s go.” 

He counts them in and lets the music take over. 

*******

It’s stop and go. Paul isn’t pleased with the takes, can’t quite put his finger on what’s wrong. Each time they play it, John grows increasingly more irritated — Paul can hear it in his voice. The tension in the studio is thick. The session long ago lost any sense of joy. 

Paul struggles to maintain his composure as John’s complaints get louder and more pointed. He can feel himself sinking into the dark depression he’s been trying so hard to keep at bay. Playing music used to make him happy. He doesn’t know when it started to feel more like work than pleasure. 

After 10 takes, John throws his headset down and abruptly stands up. 

“I need a fucking break,” he snaps, his voice shockingly loud in the quiet of the studio. 

“That’s fine. Lets take 10,” George Martin says soothingly from the booth, even as John is already stalking out of the room.

Paul’s head aches. The impulse to get up and follow John is painfully strong, a Pavlovian response learned through years of riding on the same wavelength — experiencing everything together as if they were one being. Paul’s stomach twists and for a second he thinks he’s going to throw up.

The nausea passes, but the urge to go after John doesn’t. 

Even though Yoko has already scurried after him, Paul stands up suddenly, the piano bench skidding back, and strides out of the studio. 

He knows John will be on the roof, it’s where he always goes when he needs a break, and Paul’s feet carry him there as if he’s on autopilot. Another wave of nausea hits him; his hands start to shake as he clenches them at his sides.

He feels almost manic as he makes his way to the roof, stumbling up the steps two at a time. When he finally shoves his way outside, he’s panting, his chest heaving, and John and Yoko both look over at him in confusion. Yoko looks a little annoyed. Both their lips are swollen. John has a fresh bruise blossoming on his neck, just barely peeking out from under his collar. Paul feels sick with rage. 

“John can I talk to you?” he asks in a rush. “Alone?” 

Initially John narrows his eyes, and Yoko visibly stiffens, stepping closer to him. Paul shivers as the wind blows hard, rapidly cooling the sweat percolating on his forehead. “Please,” he finally whispers, shocking even himself with the weakness in his voice. John’s gaze softens and he nods, whispering something to Yoko. She hesitates half a second before squeezing John’s hand and breezing past Paul, slamming the door shut a little harder than necessary. 

“Paul what’s wrong?” John asks softly. He walks toward Paul slowly, hands outstretched like he’s approaching a wounded animal. Paul shakes his head and furiously tries to blink away the tears burning in his eyes. 

“Nothing,” he chokes out. John finally reaches him and pulls him into a hug. At first Paul tries to squirm away, pushing at John’s chest, but he’s so fucking _tired_ and God he’s missed this: being surrounded by John’s scent. He breathes in like he’s taking a hit. 

“Paul,” John says again, his voice soft in Paul’s ear. “What’s wrong baby? You’re scaring me.” 

Paul sputters out a laugh that chokes off into a sob and his legs go weak. John easily supports his weight and eases them down to sit on the ground. He starts to rock Paul side to side. 

Paul is rapidly losing the battle with his emotions. His chest is painfully tight, his head aches, his throat burns with unshed tears. Maybe he should just let himself break. The little compartment he’s always reserved for his darkest emotions is getting too crowded. Sooner or later he’s going to be forced to open Pandora’s Box. Why not get it over with on his own terms? 

He sucks in a shaky breath and presses his face into John’s neck. 

“I miss you Johnny.” He starts to sob, and John’s arms tighten around him. 

“Oh baby,” John whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“No you’re not,” Paul manages to choke out, the rational part of his brain grasping desperately for control. “You don’t — you left me.” 

“You’re the one who broke it off in India.” John’s voice hardens. Paul shudders in response because it’s _true_. He pushed John away, thought it was about time that he grew out of whatever _thing_ he and John had. He wanted to be a good man for once.

He didn’t realize how much it would hurt. 

He thought they would stay friends, stay creative partners, but Paul never realized how intricately intwined the different facets of his relationship with John were. He never fully understood what the significance of the physical — the _sexual —_ part of their relationship was. 

“I didn’t understand,” is all Paul manages to say. 

“I don’t know what there was that was so hard to understand.” Even though John’s tone is bordering on angry, he continues to methodically stroke Paul’s hair, gently rocking him side to side. 

Paul doesn’t know how long they stay like that. He distantly wonders why no one has come looking for them yet. He tries to ask, but John just shushes him and nuzzles his neck. 

“Don’t worry about that right now.” 

He finally stops crying, but John doesn’t let him go. He just plants little closed-mouth kisses along Paul’s neck and shoulder and coos sweet, nonsense words in his ear. 

At some point, John’s kisses grow less innocent. He starts sucking a bruise into Paul’s neck, pushing his hands up under Paul’s shirt to toy with his nipples. Paul lets out a quiet, content sigh and shivers. 

“Johnny,” he whispers, his voice a half-hearted warning. “We can’t.” John just hums and nudges at Paul to turn around. 

Paul’s never been able to say no to John Lennon. 

He ends up pressed against the wall, John’s erection poking his thigh, his lips sore from how hard they’ve been kissing each other. He feels a wisp of that animalistic, manic feeling he had earlier. 

When John drops to his knees and begins tugging at Paul’s zipper, he whimpers and lets his hand rest in John’s hair. 

“Please,” he says hoarsely. “Oh God please.” 

It only takes a few minutes before he’s spilling down John’s throat. He reaches out to reciprocate, but John shakes his head and leans in to kiss Paul. He can taste himself on John’s lips. It reminds him of how it used to be, back when everything made sense. 

“I love you, Paul.” 

Oh how he’s yearned to hear those words. 

“I love you too, Johnny.” He takes a deep breath before hastily combing his hair down, feeling suddenly shy. He glances away from John and clears his throat. “Sorry about… all that.” 

“It’s okay. I’ll always be here for you.” 

Paul wants to argue, wants to point out all the times he’s needed John lately but found him tucked away with Yoko, but he doesn’t have it in him. Not today. 

They go back down to the studio together. Everyone is lounging around eating sandwiches and sipping on beers. Paul’s face burns with embarrassment — there’s no way they don’t know what John and he were just doing. Their lips are still swollen; they smell like sex. 

But no one says anything. Ringo simply offers Paul a beer and explains that they’d decided to take a longer break since George was hungry. Paul nods in thanks and accepts the beer, managing to crack a smile as Ringo launches back into a story he was busy telling George. 

Out of the corner of his eye Paul sees John sit next to Yoko, his head coming to rest on her shoulder. Paul forces himself to look away and focus on George and Ringo. 

Even though he still feels wrung out and raw, he manages to put his carefully constructed facade back in place. He takes another sip of his beer and laughs at something George says, reaching over to ruffle his friend’s hair.

On the outside, Paul seems alright. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope at least one person enjoyed this. Sorry if the character portrayals aren't as accurate as they could be. Like I said, I'm a Beatles fanfic newbie. 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated! 
> 
> I may write more McLennon fic. We'll see.


End file.
